The Waitress
by Brilliant Brunette Beauty
Summary: If Damian had known that investigating this serial murder case was going to change his life so dramatically, he wouldn't have gotten involved. He would have listened to his father and stayed out of it. But he's too intrigued by their stubborn witness from the bad part of town to turn back now. Damian/OC
1. Prologue

**A/N: This is my first time trying my hand at a canon character x OC romance, so please be gentle with me. Also be aware that only this chapter is going to be in third person narrative. The rest will be in first person.**

**Enjoy! :)**

* * *

><p>Anyone who works for a restaurant, café, pizzeria, or any other food service industry will tell you that Saturday nights are absolutely hellish. People bustle in and out all night long, staying as long as they like and being as loud as they desire, leaving the workers scrambling to seat and serve everyone before anyone gets the chance to open their mouths and complain about the slow service. It's crowded, loud, and busy as all hell. Even a café in the bad part of town is besieged by patrons. It's the absolute last place on earth a teen wants to be at on what should be a fun weekend.<p>

The tired brunette behind the counter rushes to hand yet another impatient customer their chicken salad sandwich and Diet Coke, ignoring the scowl on the woman's face from having to wait in line so long. It seems no matter what she and her coworkers do, it's never enough for the ungrateful people they wait on. Oh well, thus is the food service industry. She's not about to complain. Keeping this job is too important to her.

"You have a nice night, ma'am," she recites instinctively with a tight, forced smile as she takes the customer's $20 bill. The small, dark-haired woman gives a small grunt that the teenage worker guesses is supposed to be a 'thank you'. Eh, that's better than what she usually gets. At least _this _customer isn't throwing the diet soda back in her face. Yesterday's shift certainly was an eventful one. On the bright side, now she knows how to get soft drinks out of her clothes.

"Dee!" a gruff voice calls from the back. The teenager turns her head away from her angry customers, watching gratefully as one of her coworkers approaches in uniform, gesturing for her to step away from the counter.

"End of your shift, sweetheart," he says with a small smile. "Go home and get some shut eye. You look like hell." She smiles back, stepping back from the counter with a sigh of tired relief.

_How long _has_ it been since I slept? _Dee thinks, running a hand through her long brown hair. She shakes the thought off as she heads to the back, taking off her apron in exchange for the ratty old coat that hangs next to the back door and a bag that rests near it. However much sleep she's been lacking, she can make up for it soon. Sundays are Dee's days off, and she plans to sleep the day away. She deserves it.

"See ya, Ronnie," she calls out to one of the more friendly cooks as she shrugs on her coat. The red-headed man waves back to her with a spatula still in hand.

"Have a nice night, Dee. Stay safe out there!"

She rolls her eyes with a playful grin on her face as she walks out the door.

"Don't I always?" she calls back right before she leaves, earning a laugh from her friend. She shuts the door behind her and steps out into the bitterly cold streets of Gotham armed with only a thin, hand-me-down coat to protect her from the winter chill. But she doesn't mind much. The cold is a welcome relief from the overly heated atmosphere of the café she works at. Besides, she values that small portion of time when walking home from work. It's one of the only times she sees her neighborhood seem mildly… peaceful. Quiet, even. Of course, she could walk a few blocks over and see a few hookers no older than her picking up johns, but that's just life around here. At least she gets those few moments of peace.

Spurned on by the sound of an argument going down in the alley near her, Dee clutches her bag tighter against her body and scampers home, blissfully unaware that her actions have set a series of events in motion.

Dee's carefully structured life is about to get a whole lot messier.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Thank you guys for the feedback! The fact that I even managed to get 4 reviews when I posted a vague first chapter AND this is an OC story astounds me. So thank you all for reviewing, following, and favoriting!**

**So this chapter is in first person narrative, and I have yet to decide if I want to switch back and forth between Dee and Damian's POVs or if I want to stick to Dee. If you have a suggestion about that I'd be happy to hear it.**

**Well, I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

><p>There's nothing harder in this world than dragging my lazy butt out of my warm bed on a Sunday afternoon. After at least 10 hours of rest and another few hours of reading while still snuggled under my covers, I usually head to my kitchen while still in my t-shirt, lounge pants, and fuzzy socks to grab a snack from my fridge before retreating back to the dark cave that I call a room. That was the extent of my plans for today. That is, until I remembered that I had already made plans with my friend today. And I'm not one to break a promise, unfortunately.<p>

Remind me again why I even bother to make friends when I have to give up my free days just to see them.

Shrugging on my coat overtop a flannel shirt, I slide out my bedroom and carefully step into the living room, trying to keep footfalls as silent as possible in case my mom made her way home early this morning. Sure enough, I see a large lump on the couch, shrouded in covers with dark hair hanging down, just barely scraping against the floor. She's out cold.

Of course. She always is when she comes home.

For a moment, I'm tempted to try and wake her up and tell her where I'm going, but I think better of it. Knowing my mother, I could spend well into Monday morning trying to rouse her. I'll just let her get up on her own.

I take a few steps into the small kitchen attached to the living room, grabbing a pad of paper and scribbling down a note:

_Ma,_

_Went down to the café to meet Jess. There's chicken in the fridge. Be home soon._

_-Dee_

Not exactly true, but what my mom doesn't know won't hurt her.

Tip-toeing back into the living room, I place the note on the coffee table next to my mom's soundly sleeping form. She looks so peaceful in sleep, so much younger than when she's awake. I feel bad about leaving her like this with just some chicken in the fridge, but I have no choice.

Lola will have my head if I cancel on her.

_Again._

* * *

><p>The streets downtown are oddly abandoned today instead of bustling with life as they usually are around this time. It's so close to nightfall that you would think there would at least be some hookers picking up some of the leftover johns that didn't make their rounds last night or some teens experimenting with weed. After all, it's still the weekend. But I only see one high-heeled girl in the distance talking to a guy in a gray pickup truck, as well as a gangly looking 20-something dude leaning against the brick wall of the old bakery, looking high as a kite with a big grin plastered on his face.<p>

Ah, I never get tired of the beautiful scenery down here in the East End.

"There you are!" I hear from behind me. Turning around, I see Lola approaching in her signature studded leather jacket and dark skinny jeans with her dirty blonde hair pulled back into a messy bun. Old makeup still paints her face, only slightly smudged. Her usual Sunday look. Somehow she always manages to look better than me, even when she's a hot mess.

Which is basically every day except Saturday and Friday, come to think of it.

"I haven't seen you in like 5 years," she groans, bumping my shoulder with her own. I roll my eyes and push back at her lightly.

"It's been a few weeks, dude," I argue with a smile on my face. She shrugs, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me away from the edge of the sidewalk.

"Same thing."

I chuckle, allowing her to lean her arm on my shoulder. I have to admit that I feel slightly guilty about bailing on Lola constantly these past few weeks. I'm one of her only friends, practically her family. Her _only_ family, really. But I've been busy balancing work, school, and taking care of my mom. I barely find time to breathe, much less see friends. I don't know what a social life feels like. And she has a job of her own to attend to. We're both bad at keeping up contact.

"How'd you make out last night?" I ask, leaning against the brick wall behind me. She flashes a smirk and reaches into her shirt, pulling a few $20s out of her bra. Lola is a real class act.

"Not bad," she admits. "Could have been better, but I've had worse nights. 'Cept one guy tried to get the full experience for $20. Do I _look _that cheap?"

She shakes her head and stuffs her wages back into her bra, adjusting her tight top. I briefly wonder if she knows why she hasn't been getting much business these past few nights, but I assume she knows. The talk on the street has been deafening lately. There's no way she hasn't heard it too. I'm not the one getting into a stranger's car each night, and even _I _know to be suspicious.

"Are you being careful?" I ask her, allowing some concern to show through. She rolls her eyes at my cautiousness.

"Who are you, my mother? I'm _always _careful, Dee. You know that."

I shake my head, wondering if she knows what's going on and just doesn't care. She has a tendency to avoid problems like they're the bubonic plague.

To be fair, I have the same bad habit.

"You know what I mean," I insist. "Haven't you read the newspaper lately? They _still_ haven't found that creep, and they found another girl just two days ago. The death toll us up to 10 now. Most of them were prostitutes, and I know for a fact that you ran out of pepper spray last week."

She rolls her eyes, groaning like a teenager who just got reprimanded by a parent. It's hard to believe that _she's _the older one out of the two of us by a year. It seems like I'm always acting like a mother hen, reminding her to take care of herself.

"I'll get some more first thing tomorrow, _Mom_," she promises. I snort a little and nudge her with my shoulder as a random thought occurs to me; I'm the mother I never had.

Go figure.

"I'm holding you to that. Until then, I'm sticking close to you whether you like it or not."

She raises her eyebrows in disbelief.

"I'm seventeen, you know. I don't need to be babysat. I've been doing this long enough to know which guys I should avoid."

She shakes her head at me and pulls a cigarette and lighter out of her pocket, lighting it up. I wrinkle my nose at the overpowering smell of the smoke. Lola knows about my disdain for smoking and tries not to do it in front of me, but when she's nervous or on edge, she can't help it. Just the fact that she pulled out a pack tells me that she's more nervous about this psycho running around than she's letting on.

"C'mon, Lo," I urge. "I'll just hang around and make sure no creeps pull you into a white van. Just until they catch this guy."

She chuckles at bit at that, hitting my shoulder lightly and taking another drag of her cigarette. I move my head out of the way in time for her to blow out so the putrid smell doesn't go up my nostrils. I'm like a school health teacher when it comes to smoking.

"The answer is _no, _Dee. I can take care of myself."

Somehow I knew that was going to be her answer.

"Fine," I relent. "Just don't blame me when you end up on the evening news."

Lola lets out a throaty laugh, some left over smoke drifting out of her mouth.

"You know what they say; it doesn't matter what they're saying as long as they're talking about you."

I know she's trying to make light of this mostly for my sake, but I still can't help but be worried about her. I'm that nervous, overprotective friend who inserts myself into my friends' business and gets jokingly called 'mom' all the time. I can't help it. After all the people I've seen utterly destroyed by these streets, I'm not going to take any chances with the people I care about.

Especially considering the number of people who fall into that category is dwindling.

"Just be careful, okay?" I tell her. She nods, being semi-serious for once in her seventeen years of life.

"If it makes you feel better, I promise I'll do my best to be more cautious _and _I'll make sure I always have my pepper spray on me. Okay?"

I nod hesitantly, not sure what Lola's definition of 'cautious' is.

"Deal."

I'm sure Lola can take care of herself. After all, she's survived so far, and killers in the East End are as common as catching a cold. No one's gotten to her yet. That's a good sign, right?

Besides, I'm sure she won't notice if I _just so happen_ to be hanging around the café on the nights she's working…

If this serial killer doesn't get to me, Lola will.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Like always, feedback is gladly appreciated, and I hope you liked this chapter!**


	3. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank you all for the positive feedback! You guys make me unbelievably happy. :)**

**I also want to thank IndigoElle for helping me figure out what I wanted as far as POVs go. Also, her writing is freaking amazing so you should go check it out. **

**I have yet to finish Unfortunate Reminder, but your reviews reminded me that it's on my 'to read' list!**

**So, I will be switching up POVs between Dee and Damian's every other chapter (or at least that's my plan for now) because the direction I hope to take this story in definitely requires his point of view.**

**With that all said, please enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Damian's POV<strong>

"But _Father_," I whine, following closely behind his tall, looming figure as he marches upstairs.

"This is not up for debate," he interrupts, not even bothering to turn and face me. It's infuriating. Do I not deserve to be addressed directly like a regular human being? Am I not worthy of respect?

"Why will you not listen to me?" I demand. "I have already told you, I can handle this case. Or do you not trust me enough?"

Father turns back to look at me at last, a fire burning behind his similarly cobalt colored eyes. It's a type of fire that usually gets his opponents to back down, but not me. He should know better than to use that pathetic intimidation tactic one _me, _his own flesh and blood. I inherited the skill of intimidation. I _perfected _it. No amount of 'bat-glares' in the world will keep me from bringing up this subject again and again until he relents and gives in to my demands.

"The answer is _no_, Damian," he repeats, his voice firm enough to effectively shoot down my question. "This is a case that I'd rather do alone. It doesn't require much field work and I'd like to keep you as far away from crimes of this nature as possible."

I roll my eyes and cross my arms over my chest in a defensive stance. Though his heart is in the right place, his logic is terribly skewed, and I am not afraid to call him out on it.

"I'm seventeen years old, Father," I argue back. "You no longer have to 'protect' me from rapists-turned-murderers. I know of their existence. My nonexistent innocence is already tainted. And this particular suspect has already displayed a fondness for teenage girls only. I'm not at risk."

His face remains as hard and as cold as stone, completely unfazed. I can tell before he even bothers to reply that the answer remains a strong 'no'. It only proves to anger me further. Does he even bother to listen to me at all? Or does he tune me out as soon as I open my mouth?

"I do not need help on this case. I can do it alone easily. _End of story._"

I'm unwilling to admit defeat already. I _won't _admit defeat that quickly.

"But Father –,"

"You cannot get me to change my mind on this matter. You are not helping me on this and that is final. Pushing the issue won't help."

With that, our battle has officially ended with Father emerging the victor. I let out a low, barely audible growl, knowing he will most likely sacrifice patrol for a few nights to get this high risk case solved as quickly as possible. I think foregoing patrol in the name of a case more suited for Gotham PD is positively useless, but it's not like my opinion on the matter means anything to him. No matter what the fight is about, no matter how many good points I bring up, no matter how well prepared I am to make my case, it seems to all fall on deaf ears. I barely have a voice in this household. It is unbelievably frustrating.

"_Fine_," I hiss through gritted teeth, doing my best to keep my anger from bubbling up and spilling out through my mouth in the form of scathing words. Father's face softens from its original stony state, like he's taking pity on me. It only succeeds in souring my mood even further. There is little on this earth I hate more than pity.

"Take some time for yourself," he suggests. "Go play in the park with Titus or see a movie with that redheaded friend of yours… Colin, correct?"

A scowl forms on my face.

"Are you denying my help on this case because you want me to _get out more_?" I ask, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. I resent the sudden intrusion into my social life, or lack thereof. I'm too _busy _to maintain something as trivial as a close friendship. They're a pain, anyways.

Though I must admit, I do not mind Colin's company…

"No," Father insists, trying to placate me. "I'm just making a suggestion. I'm going to be extremely busy until this case is wrapped up and I don't want you to go stir crazy from being cooped up in here all day."

So I was correct. He's momentarily suspending patrol. I have at least a few days to mope around the Manor doing absolutely nothing.

Wonderful.

"Do not concern yourself with what I do in my spare time," I snap harsher than I intended. "I will find a way to entertain myself."

He opens his mouth slightly, as if he feels like he should push on and say more, but he thinks better of it and shakes his head.

"Very well," he murmurs, signaling that he's given up on this conversation. "Have a good night, Damian."

I give him a curt nod.

"You as well, Father."

With that, I turn sharply on my heels and march upstairs and into my room, shutting the door behind me and throwing myself down onto my small, single bed. My face sinks into the fluffy pillow and I bite back the urge to scream into it out of frustration. This isn't the first time Father has barred me from patrol, and I doubt it will be the last.

But no matter how many times it has happened over the years we've been partners, I'm always filled with the same, unavoidable feeling. All the pent up aggression and frustration that would usually be burned out of my system during patrol ends up building until it spews from me in uncontrollable ways.

I'm seventeen years old. I've come a long way from the ten year old child my father was tasked with wrangling into submission. I've learned to control myself and the angry undertone that tinges all my emotions. Father _taught _me how to control it. And yet he still doesn't trust me enough to let me go out on even one solo patrol.

_Tt. _

So much for being _partners_.

I sit up on my bed, punching my pillow in rage.

Seven years as partners. Seven goddamn years. And I'm still being treated like an irresponsible ten year old with homicidal tendencies. It isn't right. It isn't _fair_.

I shoot up off my bed, darting out of the room with a mission clear in my mind. If Father doesn't trust me, then I'll just have to prove to him that he can. And what better time to do that than when he's taking one of his frequent, short naps?

I turn the hands on the archaic grandfather clock to 10:47 and swiftly slide down the pole that appears, landing lightly on my feet in the cave. With a smirk pulling at my lips, I walk to my locker and open it, grabbing my uniform and mask.

Why let Father waste weeks tracking this depraved psychopath when I can take him down in one night?

* * *

><p>The East End of Gotham is a putrid wasteland full of junkies, harlots, and gangbangers. Gotham is a concrete Hell in general, but the East End makes the rest of the city seem like Dubai in comparison. From my current location the roof of a small café, I can make out the shapes of a few bodies slumped unconscious against a streetlamp with a dirty, discarded needle lying next to one of their limp arms. I shake my head to myself.<p>

The citizens of the East End are the poster children for the 'Say No To Drugs' campaign.

So far, I have yet to see anyone but male junkies walk past this road, though I know it is a popular spot for prostitutes. They must not be stupid, then. Everyone knows about the killings. They've become impossible to ignore, even for the jaded residents of the East End. It seems all night life for teenage girls has ceased. Everyone is too afraid.

Which means it's doubtful I will catch sight of my target tonight.

I let out a low groan of annoyance. Father is most definitely up from his nap by now, and there is no way he hasn't noticed my absence. I'll be grounded for a week, _if _he is feeling merciful. Unless I can convince him I snuck off to see Colin and conveniently 'forgot' to inform him of my plans beforehand…

It's no use. Father isn't an idiot. He probably checked to see if the uniform was missing. There's no way I'm not grounded.

Which, when patrols are already suspended, really isn't much of a punishment.

I'm just about to jump down onto the awning below, the backdoor to the café opens and floods the alleyway with a bright light and faint, chattering voices. I retreat back into the shadows, looking downwards and waiting for the figure that glides out of the doorway to pass so I can leave.

The light illuminates the person's face, and I can see it's a girl. Just a girl. About my age, maybe younger. I don't give this much more thought as she shuts the door and trudges down the alleyway lazily. I click my tongue in annoyance at her slow pace. The longer I have to wait to get home, the worse my punishment will probably be.

A muffled scream from below takes my mind off my imminent punishment and back to the field.

I peer back down and see two shapes instead of one, the new figure obviously a large man looming over the much smaller girl. I can just barely see his hand covering her mouth as she struggles against him.

I don't give it a second thought as I jump down onto the awning below, sliding off of it and landing on the ground right next to the attempted mugger. But I don't get the chance to grab him and drag him away from the girl.

He's curled up on the ground, holding his face and howling in pain.

It's a tell-tale sign of pepper spray.

My gaze drifts from the scum at my feet to the girl in front of me, breathing clinging onto a can of pepper spray like it's her last life-line. The darkness makes it almost impossible to see the pepper spray in her hand, but the shaking of her hand makes it hard to miss.

She's shaken, no doubt about it. Probably more so from me than from the attempted mugging.

I, on the other hand, am just annoyed.

A swift kick to the attempted mugger's abdomen causes him to curl up into a ball and confirms my suspicions. This scumbag is much too pathetic to be the sophisticated serial killer that has been eluding the authorities for nearly 2 months.

Grabbing the arm of the shaking girl, I drag her out of the alleyway and into the street, ignoring her struggling and her small fist beating against my chest. I can barely even feel it through the Kevlar, though I suspect I'd barely be able to feel it even if I _wasn't _wearing Kevlar.

She's miniscule compared to me.

"Take your hands off me, you asshole!" she protests. "I'll spray you too!"

I roll my eyes at her attempts to be frightening. She really has no idea who I am.

I pull her underneath the lamppost light, my feet swiping against the side of one of the passed out junkies. When her struggling lets up slightly, I let go of her arm, intending to check her for injuries before finally going home. But I don't get so much as a glance at her newly illuminated form before she slaps me across the face. _Hard_.

I think that's the first time a hit from a civilian has ever even stung. Just slightly.

I tilt my head back up, watching her gasp and her eyes widen as she realizes who she's hit, and I finally get a good look at her.

She's tanned skinned, most likely of Hispanic heritage, and her straight, light-brown colored hair hangs down to at least to the middle of her back. Her eyes are hazel in color, and wide with disbelief. An embarrassed blush tinges her full cheeks.

Hm. Not the least attractive girl I've ever seen.

"Oh my god," she gasps out. "Y-You're _Robin_! And I just slapped you!"

Oh gee, and I thought Batman was the detective.

"Oh really?" I ask sardonically. "I didn't notice."

She looks down at her feet, the blush on her cheeks intensifying like the flames to a stove. I narrow my eyes, examining her critically. What about my statement was so blush worthy?

_Tt_. I give up on trying to understand women.

"I guess I should say sorry…" she trails off, rubbing the back of her neck nervously. "But it was your fault for grabbing me. So you kind of had it coming..."

Wait, _what_?

My mouth pops open and I can do nothing but gape at her, taken aback by her bold words. Most people retreat back into a shell once they see me, like I'm some all-powerful force to be feared or a celebrity to be admired. Yet she defends smacking me.

I don't know if I should be annoyed or intrigued.

"I was _trying _to help you," I argue, glaring intently at the bold girl. "That's hardly a reason to assault me."

The girl simply gives me an infuriating eye-roll and crosses her arms over her chest defensively.

"Well in case you didn't notice, I managed just fine without your help," she points out cheekily.

_Who does she think she is?_

"How was _I _supposed to know that?" I hiss, done reasoning with this stubborn girl. Even worse, as soon as the sentence leaves my lips, a smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth. This _amuses _her. My taller stature and my reputation can usually make anyone back down, especially if I snap at them. But this girl is _entertained _by me?

What a strange little creature.

"Well, _Robin_, if you don't mind stepping aside a bit, it's getting late I'd like to make it home in time to finish my homework."

I step to the side, scowling at her from underneath my mask. She sees this and lets out a short laugh that sounds halfway to a very unladylike giggle. Again, I'm split on annoyance and amusement.

I choose annoyance.

She walks past me, turning back to face me at the last second.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Robin," she exaggerates, tipping an imaginary hat to me. I raise my eyebrows, unable to figure out the girl in front of me. But I must admit she's just a bit interesting…

Interesting _and _infuriating.

"Likewise, Miss…"

"Dee," she interjects. "It's not like I'll be seeing you ever again, but just in case you happen to be around the next time I get mugged, call me Dee."

I nod curtly at her.

"Try not to get mugged again on your way home, _Dee_," I reply in a snarky tone before turning back and stalking away in the opposite direction.

I assume that the light laughter slowly fading into the background is the last I will ever hear from this odd girl named Dee.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Did I lose momentum in the second half? I feel like I did.**

**But hey, I worked hard on it, so I like it at least.**

**Please, don't be shy. Tell me what you think! I love to hear from my readers.**

**I hope to update again soon! :)**


	4. Chapter 3

**A/N: I'm sorry for the long wait, but I finally got a chapter out! Thank you all so much for the positive feedback on this story and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

><p><strong>Dee's POV<strong>

The smell of smoke is what finally rouses me from an hour long, Friday afternoon nap.

Not the alarm I set before I collapsed, not my mother's soft and sonorous voice calling to me from the living room, but the distinct smell of smoke wafting towards me, invading my senses. My eyes shoot open like the smoke punched me in face instead of tickling my nose.

It takes all of 5 seconds for me to jump out of my bed and barrel out of my open door, stumbling slightly on my way out, prepared for the worst. Of course my mind starts to list all the worst case scenarios, like running into the living room only to find our apartment has gone up in flames and my mom is –

Dead and _not_ just sitting on the couch smoking with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

I sigh in both relief and annoyance, glad my concerns were unfounded but irked by the fact that I overreacted. _Again_. What is this, the 5th time this has happened this month?

"Ma," I groan, sinking down into the chair across from the couch. She raises an eyebrow up at me, feigning innocence.

"What?" she asks in her naturally raspy voice, enhanced by years of chain-smoking. I glare at her, my hazel eyes piercing her bright blue ones. She's not getting off that easy.

"I've asked you before _not _to smoke inside," I reply sternly, like I'm the parent. "Remember last time?"

She chuckles a bit, some leftover puffs of smoke pouring out of the corners of her mouth and her crow's-feet becoming more prominent. I always tell her that her smoking habit is aging her, but she doesn't bother to listen.

Mom has never cared much about her appearance.

"That was an accident and you know it," she defends herself, the corners of her mouth quirked into an amused smile. "It's not like I go around purposefully setting fire to carpets, Deedee."

My shoulders relax a little bit when her nickname for me comes out of her mouth. Her tone is as smooth as silk, and it's able to melt through my stern exterior quicker than a flame thrower through an ice cube. I can never stay stern for too long when it comes to my mother. I hate that she has that power over me. I hate _anyone _having that power over me.

"Just do it outside next time, okay?" I sigh, giving up on this argument. It's not even worth it anymore.

She nods eagerly, her dark curls bouncing on her shoulders.

"Scout's honor," she swears, holding up her hand in a joking way. I let out a soft chuckle, shaking my head. I'm happy with the promise for now, but I know very well how this is going to go down. She's going to follow through with her promise for a day, maybe two days tops, and then she's going to slip up again and then I'm going to make her promise to do better next time, which she will, and the cycle repeats. It happens every time, no matter what that promise is about, and I know it's a cycle that is going to keep repeating forever and ever.

But I let it slide every single time.

Maybe I just _want_ it to be true bad enough to _pretend_ it is.

"What time is it?" I ask in passing as I walk into the adjoining kitchen.

"Five after five," she calls back to me. I groan as I swing open the fridge door. My shift starts at 6:30, and I still have some English worksheet for homework to get through. When I get back home at 10:30, there's a good chance I'll be too tired to even think about diagraming sentences.

Oh well. That's what homeroom and lunch are for, right?

I grab a bottled water from the fridge and a granola bar from our little pantry, planning on sneaking these into my bag, past my boss and snacking on them before my shift starts. He has a strict 'no food' policy, despite working in the food service industry. Go figure.

I march back into the living room, chuck my drink and snack onto the chair, and grab my boots that lay limp on the floor, pulling them on and zipping them up over the jeans I slept in. I'm sure my boss won't mind me coming in wearing a sweater, jeans, and combat boots. He might, however, mind my rather unkempt appearance, lack of makeup, and the bed-head that I haven't straightened today…

Eh, he can deal. I'm a waitress at a run-down café, not Hooters.

I run my hands through my wavy hair in a pathetic attempt at brushing it, turning to my mom as I do so. She tosses her magazine back onto the table and focuses her attention back onto me.

"My shift ends at 10:30. There's some frozen pizzas in the freezer so you can…"

I trail off, my eyes catching sight of a suspicious residue on the edge of the coffee table. I narrow my eyes at the familiar white substance, red hot anger rising in my chest and filling my lungs. I flit my eyes back up at my mother, who just looks back at me with feigned innocence.

"_Mother_…" I hiss warningly, trying to keep my temper under control.

"What?" she asks. I cross my arms over my chest and glare at her, trying to stay firm and not let her off so easily this time. I had hoped she stopped. In retrospect, I should have known she didn't. But like all the broken promises before, I always let this slide for some unexplainable reason. It's gotten to the point where I don't even feel disappointment or sadness anymore. Just… annoyance. Annoyance and anger.

"I don't want to see that in this house," I demand sternly. "If you have to do… _that,_ then do it somewhere else. I don't want another pleasant little surprise visit by the cops _or _your dealer."

She tilts her head, pulling her blue fleece blanket tighter around her shoulders with a small shudder.

"Johnny visited while I was out? Why didn't you tell me?"

I roll my eyes.

"That's not the point," I insist. "_The point is, _if you're really going to do coke, please don't do it here. Why do you think they took Gra–,"

"Don't go there," Mom warns, pointing a warning finger at me. I can hear the finality in her tone, and I know better than to press the issue any further. I may act as the parent most of the time, but my mom is not afraid to put her foot down and be the mother she's supposed to be. Always at the wrong times, though.

"Fine," I relent. "Just… please. _Don't _do that here. _Please_, Ma?"

She cracks a smile, her previously serious demeanor now suddenly washed away, her face drained of all tension. It's like a switch was flipped inside her head.

"I promise, Deedee. Tanya was out of town and I didn't know where else to go. It was a one-time thing, I swear."

_Just like it was a one-time thing last month, and the month before that, and the month before that…_

I sigh, grabbing my purse off the chair and shoving my granola bar and water into it before hauling it over my shoulder.

"I'll be back before you know it, okay?" I tell her. She just nods at me, laying back down on the couch and pulling the blanket over her body.

"Love you," she calls as I walk to the door. I turn back briefly, returning the warm smile plastered across her face. My mother may have her faults, but when she smiles at me, it's like all those times she let me down throughout the years are just washed down the drain and I eagerly take on the role of the doting daughter, just happy that she's happy.

I'm pathetic, aren't I?

Still, I do what I always do; I give her a little wave, blow a kiss, and smile big.

"Love you too, Ma."

* * *

><p>The sun has already been torn down from the sky by the time I step out into the streets, replaced by the glittering moon. It's a full moon tonight. A bit chilly, a little windy, but overall a nice night. I jump off the last stair of the apartment building, pausing for a few seconds to let the cool night breeze wash over me. It's my favorite kind of weather; not cold, but just enough chill to make you shiver. Like the weather near the beginning of horror movies when the dumb blonde protagonist decides to take a walk through a deserted alley in the bad part of town completely unarmed.<p>

I watch way too many TV movies.

Rubbing my arms for warmth, I scuttle along the eerily silent road with the wind pushing back against my body. It's calm tonight. Oddly so. There are no hookers, no pimps, no junkies, not even a random asshat whistling at me from a car. Usually I'm on red alert on a Friday night, my hand buried in my bag and clutching tightly at the pepper spray I always keep on me. But tonight, I feel no need.

Maybe I'll have another encounter with a little birdie tonight.

I snort at the thought. The fact that I even bumped – or more accurately, _smacked_ – into _the _Robin a few nights ago is still surreal to me. I'd sooner expect Mom to quit drugs and join a quilting circle before I expect to meet Batman and Robin. Sure, you hear stories about their exploits throughout Gotham, but that's exactly what they are; stories. Batman and Robin are heroes, spoken of in song and legend. They're larger than life, not the type of people you'd expect to encounter on the streets. Even with their protective shadows looming over dear old Gotham, you're more likely to be shot dead in the streets than you are to have an encounter with them.

Hell, you're more likely to get your leg bitten off by a rabid kitten than to run into Batman and Robin here in the East End.

I smirk a bit, remembering the shock on Robin's face when I back-talked him. He looked half-way ready to smack me silly. Maybe I should have been a bit more reluctant, but really, what was he gonna do? Kill me? It's _Robin_. His job is to guard Gotham's innocent citizens, not beat them up. I had no reason to be intimidated.

Now if it was Batman… That's a different stories. From the stories I've heard about him on the street, you do not under any circumstances want to see his glare directed towards you. Much less back-sass him.

But Robin… He's different. Seeing him riled up and flustered was… cute. Fun.

Who knows? I might see him again one day, hopefully under better circumstances.

I find myself smiling to myself as I pass a few more dank buildings on my way to the café, amused by my train of thought and just happy that I have yet to see Lola out and about tonight. Friday is her busiest night, and she always goes to work around the time my shift starts as a way for us to sort of check up on each other. She must have heard the news about yet another body being discovered two days ago and finally decided to stay at home.

_Good_.

I swear, I'm going to worry myself to death over that girl.

As I speed-walk down the sidewalk just a block from my destination, the back of my hand grazes my bag slightly and comes back… wet. I stare down at the worn old cloth bag curiously. What the hell…?

The damn water bottle. The cap must have not been screwed on all the way.

I groan.

_Dammit._

Taking a sharp turn, I stop off at the edge of an alley and leaning against the wall momentarily. I rip my bag off my shoulder and flip it open, muttering angrily to myself. I have my wallet in here. I swear to god and Zeus and every deity there is, if the water seeped through my things, I'm gonna stab –

A strange sound coming from the alley behind me stops my hand right as it wraps around my water bottle.

It sounded like a gagging noise. A weird, wet gagging noise. Faint, but just loud enough to pick up on in the otherwise deafening silence of the night. I falter slightly, my grip on the bottle loosening. I'm not quite alarmed… yet. It could have been an animal or something…

The muffled, pained scream that comes next, however, _is _enough to alarm me.

My muscles tense up in preparation for attack, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. My mind runs wild, spinning different scenarios of where that noise could have possibly come from. None of them are good.

When you live in the East End, you always have to expect the worst.

I stiffen and lean further into the cold brick, stuffing my hand further down into my purse. I grab ahold of the cool, slippery surface of my pepper spray can, gripping it tightly. Slowly taking it out of my bag, I spin around on my heels to face the alley opening behind me with a shaking hand.

My breath hitches, my eyes widening.

_No. Fucking. Way._

The moonlight illuminates the dark, dirty alley, revealing a sparkling pool of dark red blood slithering along the cracked pavement. The smell of iron hits my nose, making me gag in disgust. My eyes travel upwards to the source of the bloody river.

It's a girl.

She can't be much older than I am. She's stripped down to a plain white cotton bra and matching panties, both of which are soiled with mud and spotted with blood. Her eyes are wide open and staring up at the night sky, unseeing. But the thing that my eyes are drawn to the most is the long, deep slash mark that runs across her delicate throat, splitting her open from ear to ear.

I gulp, my hands trembling violently now. I suddenly feel nauseous. The putrid smell of the blood, the sight of the dead body, the fear that courses through my veins – it's all too much, too overwhelming…

My hands aren't shaking anymore.

My entire _body _is shaking.

Hesitantly, I allow my eyes to rake upwards. There, looming over the body, is a man.

And his dark eyes are focused solely on _me_.

Slowly, a wide smile spreads across his face.

"You're going to need more than just pepper spray, sweetheart."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Trust me, I have _many _plans for this story. ;)**


	5. Chapter 4

**A/N: I would say I'm sorry for leaving you with a cliffhanger, but I'd be lying.**

**With that, I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

* * *

><p><strong>Damian's POV<strong>

I'm slowly but surely approaching day 5 of my grounding and I'm in the process of learning to despise the beige color of the walls in my bedroom. Beige is such a _boring, _in between color. Quite tacky too, if I think about it long enough. Why would anyone want to paint a room beige? It's the color of dirt and vomit, not something pleasing to the eye.

Then again, any color can become ugly when you're stuck staring at it 24/7.

I'm not sure how long this punishment is supposed to last. Father took one look at me when I snuck in through the Batcave and sent me up to my room, his deathly calm only interrupted by the vein just barely bulging in his forehead; a tell-tale sign of his burgeoning rage. He made sure I knew I was not allowed off the Manor grounds unless he allows it, which I heavily doubt he will.

I scowl to myself, tossing a small bouncy ball up in the air and catching it over and over again as I lay flat on my bed, like I've been doing on and off for the past two hours. I've gradually grown tired of this mundane and tedious activity, but I'm going through an unfortunate bout of artist's block, so sketching is out of the question for now. I have no books to read that I have not already read 3 times over, and I've gone through my iPod playlist so many times that I swear my ears are _still_ ringing.

I am terribly bored.

Being confined to the Manor is suffocating. I feel like a caged animal being held down in chains. My need for space to roam around in is deep and primal. If I don't get my freedom back soon, I fear I may explode.

I get up to pace around the perimeter of the room, my body anxious for _some _sort of action. I would say I'm starting to become stir crazy, but I think I passed that point 2 days ago at the very least. I need some sort of outlet for the energy threatening to burst from me. I need an outlet, a face to punch in or crime to punish.

"Damian!" Father's booming voice calls from downstairs. "Get down here!"

It takes me no more than 10 seconds to race out the door and slide down the staircase banister, taking a flying leap to the floor. Father has barely spoken a single word to me since I snuck out nearly a week ago. He's angry with me, that much is obvious, but he's a practical man; if he's speaking to me now, he must absolutely need my help on something. Whatever it is, I just hope it gets me out of this cage I call a home.

My father is just putting his phone back into his pocket when I land, glancing over at me.

"Your punishment is over," he states simply with no pretense whatsoever. "We have a case."

A grin slowly tugs at my lips.

Finally, some action.

* * *

><p>Oh, how wrong I was.<p>

This is _definitely_ not the type of action I was looking for.

Instead of swinging in and kicking a scumbag's face in or breaking up a drug bust or even stopping a routine mugging, we're parked near an area closed off by crime scene tape and covered in police officers. Any criminal that was at this scene is long gone by now.

There goes my face to punch in.

"And _why _can the GCPD not handle this on their own?" I hiss as we exit the car, approaching the bustling crime scene.

"_Because _their only witness isn't cooperating and Gordon thought we might be able to help," he replies without bothering to look back at me. I bite my tongue in anger. He _knows _that is one of my pet-peeves.

I follow closely behind him, squinting at the oncoming glare of the multiple police car lights. From the abnormally large amount of responding officers, I'm guessing this must be a reasonably high profile case. Most likely, it's related to the East End Killer, as they've branded the new rapist-murderer running amok around Gotham. He must have struck again and miraculously left a witness behind this time around.

Odd. He doesn't seem the type to leave any loose ends. He's been meticulous so far. The GCPD is at their wit's end with the unusual lack of evidence.

Either he's sure this witness won't talk or he or she will be dead within week's end. Whichever one it is, I don't see us getting much out of this unfortunate survivor.

I don't see why Father thought it necessary to drag me along for the investigation when always handles this type of situation by himself, but I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially not when I've spent so long stuck in the Manor like an animal caught in a trap.

As we get closer, I see what looks to be a teenaged girl struggling against the grip of a detective who refuses to let go of her arm. Her long, light brown hair sways wildly from side to side as she fights him tooth and nail. It's like watching an animal struggle in the grip of its predator; desperate and fierce.

She obviously doesn't need _us_ to tell her she's a dead girl walking if she gives a statement.

"I'm not going to talk!" she shouts over the sound of the jabbering detectives. "I know my rights! You can't make me tell you anything if I don't want to! Just _let me go_!"

The officer holding her turns his body towards us, and I get a glimpse of the witness's face, half cloaked by loose strands of wavy hair. Even in this poorly lit area, I recognize that face instantly.

It's that intriguing young girl I ran into a few nights ago – What was her name again? Dee?

Yes, that sounds about right.

I inch closer out of curiosity, briefly wondering if she recognizes me as I do her. As soon as that thought occurs me to me, I mentally scold myself for being so stupid. Even if our little encounter hadn't happened, I'm sure she would still recognize me. I'm Robin, for God's sake. Everyone in Gotham City knows me.

And if they're smart, they fear me as well.

Before my masked eyes are able to meet hers, Batman takes the lead and approaches her. I catch sight of the disapproving looks shot at him by many of the officers present. In response, I glare right back at them.

They may not like us, but they don't have much choice, now do they?

I watch as Dee's eyes go wide as saucers at the sight of my father. Whether it's in fear or wonder, I'm not sure. Maybe a bit of both. Whatever it is, it's certainly amusing to witness. It always is.

"B-Batman?" she stutters. "_The _Batman? W-Why are you…?"

"Glad you could make it," Commissioner Gordon cuts her off, reaching out to respectfully shake Batman's hand while Dee looks on with a bewildered and slightly exasperated expression, as if this entire situation is just too ridiculous to be true.

I take this time as an opportunity to approach, standing by Batman's side with my shoulders squared and my posture rigid. But no matter what my pose is, my presence does not command respect in the way Batman's does. The disparaging glances I get from the on duty officers are evidence of that. I narrow my eyes in retaliation.

Fools.

Do they have any _idea _what I could do to them?

Batman's heavy hand landing on my shoulder chases that dark thought away.

"Robin, would you handle the witness while the Commissioner and I talked?" Batman asks – or more accurately, _commands _– me.

Finally, I understand what purpose my presence here serves.

Father thinks that because Dee and I are close in age, I may be able to make her comfortable enough to get her to confide in me about what happened tonight. I resist the instinct to roll my eyes at the idiotic plan. If she has any shred of intelligence in that pretty little head of hers, she won't give me a thing. Besides, just because she may possibly speak to _me _doesn't mean she'll turn around and give the detectives a witness statement. Anything she tells me is inadmissible to the GCPD.

Dee's eyes meet mine at last, widening almost imperceptibly. Her mouth gapes open, and I know she's about to say _something_ that will reveal to my father that we have met before. I'm not sure why, but that little piece of information isn't something I want Father knowing.

I grab her arm away from the detective holding her in place.

"Come with me," I mutter, dragging her away from the chaos. She remains surprisingly limp, allowing me to move her.

Hm.

I expected the feisty girl I met earlier this week to fight back against my grip like she did with the officer who was holding her against her will. But, when I see the enraged expression spreading across her face like a shadow, I know I've spoken too soon.

"You again?" she hisses. "Is it your goal in life to show up every time something happens to me on the streets? Because it's really starting to creep me out."

I roll my eyes at her dramatics.

_Tt_.

Women.

"Would you mind telling me exactly _what_ happened?" I shoot back, keeping my volume to a minimum as to not be overheard. Her intense hazel eyes narrow at me in a challenging way, her jaw set. I narrow my masked eyes right back at her to show her I have no intention of backing down.

"I have nothing to tell you," she insists, harshly ripping her arm away from my grip. "I just want to get out of here. They've been holding me here for at least an hour. If I get to work any later than I already am, my boss is going to tear me apart limb by limb and hang my severed head on his mantle as a warning to the rest of the employees."

What normal, red-blooded teenage girl spends her Friday nights working?

More importantly, what teenage girl uses such an odd choice of words?

"The sooner you give the detectives your statement, the sooner you get to leave," I attempt to reason with her. She gives me an incredulous look, as if I've just demanded she track the killer down herself.

"And have a pissed off serial killer slice my neck open for snitching? I don't think so, Bird Boy."

I cringe at the unflattering nickname. Hopefully that little term of endearment doesn't stick.

"You're the only witness in high risk case," I snap, my patience wearing thin. "He could murder another girl in the time it takes you to come to your senses and give a statement. Do you really want that hanging over your head?"

She visibly flinches at my words, her shoulders slumping in defeat. It seems I've finally been able to knock some sense into that thick skull of hers by tapping into her humanity. No one wants to be responsible for the death of innocents.

"I _wish _I could help," she admits reluctantly. "I really, _really _wish I could help. And I'm not just saying that. Some of my best friends are prostitutes, and I don't know _what_ I'd do if he killed any of them. But it was dark out when I saw him and he just pulled his hood up and… walked right past me. Like I was just _there_. In his way. He didn't give me as much as a sideways glance."

I furrow my brows in confusion. I've read up on this killer. He's ruthless, calculating, and absolute. He doesn't leave behind witnesses, much less a girl that fits his victim profile to a tee. It would have made more sense to me if she managed to escape by running for her life. But he just… walked right past her? It doesn't make sense.

He's planning something. That I'm sure of. There's no way he plans to let this be. He's far too meticulous for that.

Dee sighs and takes a step back, a signal that she would like to end the conversation.

"As you can see, I have nothing valuable to offer this investigation. So please, just let me go to work. I can't afford to lose this job over this."

I'm tempted to grab her by the arm and drag her over to the officers to demand she be given around the clock protection until this beast is apprehended, but I know they do not have the resources to provide that. And even if they did, I have a feeling that Dee is the type of girl who has too much pride to accept help from anyone, much less overbearing help from police officers.

But who knows what will happen to her without any sort of protection?

I briefly wonder why I care so much; I don't _know_ Dee. Not really. She's not _my _problem. She's just some girl I ran into on the street one day and exchanged some playful banter with. I shouldn't be so concerned with what happens to her.

But she's still an innocent. And it's my job – no, my _responsibility_ as Robin to protect her.

"Fine," I relent, giving her a small shove. "Get out of my sight."

She flashes me a grateful smile that illuminates her entire face like lights on a Christmas tree.

_Tt_. I hate cheery types.

"Thank you, Bird Boy," she teases good-naturedly before turning on her heels, her long brown hair swaying back as she struts off. I watch as she rushes out of the crime scene like a woman on a mission, pointedly ignoring the officers who try to get her attention. A small smirk tugs at my lips.

I don't suppose Batman will protest to me dropping in on the East End to check on her in the weeks to come…

Just to ensure her safety, of course.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Ya'll are probably wondering where I'm going with this. But trust me, I have this alllll planned out. Kind of.**

**Please don't be shy! Feel free to leave a review and tell me what you thought! Until next time, dear readers. :)**


	6. Chapter 5

**A/N: I've been on a writing frenzy lately! Now that my school play is over and we're getting a lot of snow days, I have the time on my hands. Besides, this story has been giving me a lot of inspiration lately. Which is why I feel like I must say, if you read some of my other stories and are wondering why I haven't been updating them recently, then here's your answer! I've just been so interested in this story lately that I've neglected my others. Rest assured, if you're a fan of 168 Hours, I plan to update that soon. :)**

**ALSO, I plan on maybe changing the summary to this story, so be aware of that. I don't want to change it and have anyone freak out because they can't find it on search or something.**

**With that all being said, please enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Dee's POV<strong>

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we don't accept grocery store coupons here – and no, speaking with my manager will not fix that."

20 minutes of repeating the same thing over and over again and the short, plump woman at the counter _still _won't accept the fact that the café doesn't give out coupons, nor will we take grocery store coupons, much less for cream spinach soup that we don't even sell.

Welcome to the wonderful world of the food service industry, where the customer is always right even when they're not.

"This is ridiculous!" she squawks back at me, her chubby face turning beet red with rage. "I demand to see your manager!"

I keep the polite smile forcefully plastered on my face, ready to calmly tell her exactly where she can shove those damn coupons, when one of my coworkers strides up to the cash register and pulls me back slightly by my arm as a signal that it's his turn to take over for me. I sigh in relief.

In all honesty, I was probably a few seconds away from doing something that would cause me to lose my job.

"Time for you to go home, Collins," my coworker tells me with a sympathetic smile on his face. I run a hand through my knotted hair, giving him a tired smile in return that I'm not quite sure reaches my eyes.

"Thanks, Myers. See you tomorrow."

I lean in closer, just out of earshot of the pissed off costumer demanding our attention in front of us.

"And may God have mercy on your soul."

He chuckles softly, a gesture I do not return. All the negotiating today has left me too exhausted to make the attempt.

I take a step back from the counter, pretending not to notice the concern directed towards me in his expression. It's not like he hasn't seen me tired before – he's my coworker on the morning shift, for god's sake. We're all tired and miserable and want to go home. I must look especially haggard today if it's enough to warrant a concerned look from him.

Oh well. I don't have the time or energy to worry about my appearance. Not today.

I rip my ugly green apron off as I walk into the back, depositing it on the hanger and grabbing my ratty old bag in preparation to leave for the day. A small smile makes its way to my face at the thought of going home and taking a nice, long nap. I'm so exhausted that I'm not sure I'll even be able to make it to my bed before I pass out. And Mom is probably taking a nap on the couch as she usually is when I come home.

The living room floor doesn't seem too awful comfort wise…

"Hey, Dee?" another coworker of mine calls out from behind me. I spin around on the heels of my converse, a little bit grumpy from being so rudely flung from my fantasy of sleep.

"What is it?" I snap, much harsher than I intended. My coworker flinches as if he's been slapped, and I immediately regret my tone. That's not like me at all. I'm not usually this snappish on the job. Sure, I'm not flinging daisies and singing Disney songs at 7am, but I'm polite enough. I must just be tired…

Yeah, that must be it. I just need a little bit of rest and I'll be good as new.

"I don't mean to bother you," my coworker, Alex, defends himself. "I'm really sorry. I was just worried about you."

Ugh.

I should have known this was coming.

Alex is a nice guy, he really is. He's always been kind to me, even a little bit sweet on me. I, however, have no interest in pursuing any sort of romantic relationship at the moment. Between school, work, taking care of my mom, and what little remnants of a social life that I still have, I don't have time for one. Besides, he holds no interest for me beyond the realms of acquaintanceship. He's just not my type, I guess…

Okay, I'm getting off topic.

What I'm getting at is, Alex is nice and I really appreciate his concern, but he has an annoying tendency to be overbearing and pry into places in my life where he doesn't belong. I tolerate it because I know he means no harm, but I'm not in the mood today.

"I'm _fine_," I insist, throwing in a smile for good measure. Alex, however, does not look convinced.

"Are you sure? You've been kind of… _different _lately."

I blink quizzically at him, letting his sentence sink in.

Different? How would _he _know whether or not I'm acting 'different'? We only see each other once a week during the morning shift, and even then, we only make the traditional polite conversation normal amongst coworkers. We're not friends – hell, we're barely even acquaintances. He doesn't know me, not really. So where does he get off on saying I'm acting 'different'?

For a split second, I wonder where this irrational amount of rage is coming from, but the growing annoyance I feel smothers that concern fairly quick.

"What do you mean 'different'?" I question, struggling to keep up a polite smile.

"On edge," he answers immediately. "Like you're anxious about something."

For a brief moment, I stand there in a stunned silence at his words. However, it quickly gives way to a soft chuckle.

"I assure you, Alex, I'm not anxious about anything."

Me? Anxious? Over what? I have nothing to be anxious about, besides the usual hassles of juggling all my responsibilities like any other teenager. He must be reading me all wrong. _Everyone _seems to be reading me wrong lately. Even Lola, who knows more sides of me than any of my other friends, insinuated the same thing earlier today and assumed it was because of that little… _run –in _I had with the East End Killer last night.

Ridiculous, right?

I mean, it's not like anything happened that night that should make me anxious. He barely even looked at me, much less did anything to me. I'm perfectly fine. It wasn't _me_ whose throat he slit. It wasn't _me _who he raped. It wasn't _me _who he left bleeding out on a cold, dirty alley street in the East End like a piece of garbage no one would miss…

He didn't do any of that to _me._

When he spotted me standing there at the end of the alleyway, frozen and scared out of my wits, I could have just as easily been that girl laying there bloody and brutalized, just another face on the bulletin board of victims used to motivate detectives into doing their jobs.

But it wasn't me.

He walked right past me.

He's not coming back for me.

I'm _sure _of it.

It wasn't me.

_It wasn't me_.

"Um, Dee? Are you okay? Your hands are shaking…"

I glance back up at Alex's worried face, then down to my trembling hands. As soon as I become self-aware, I try to stop the nervous tremor. It subsides a bit, but it still lingers slightly. A sign of my weakness, just like me staying frozen last night.

I shake my head to myself, running a twitching hand down my face as if I'm trying to wake myself up from this weird reality I'm in at the moment…

Tired. I'm just tired. That's it. I just need some sleep. Some sleep and I'll be alright.

"I'm fine," I snap at Alex, shoving my hands into my pockets. "I'm just really tired, you know? That's all."

From the look on his face, I can tell he doesn't quite believe me.

"You know, if you need to talk about anything, I'm right here," he offers.

Yeah, not gonna happen, buddy.

"Thanks for the offer," I ground out through gritted teeth, eager to make my escape. "I'll see you next Saturday."

I turn away from him, about to walk out the door, when he grabs my upper-arm. My eyes snap down to where he has me in his grip, and I have to bury the urge to give him a right-hook to the face.

There's nothing I hate more than people touching me without my permission.

"Hey, Dee?"

I wrench my arm out of his grip not-so-gently.

"_What?_" I snap

He sighs in defeat, taking a step back to give me space.

"Just… stay safe out there. Okay?"

I haul my purse over my shoulder, giving him a wry smile that I hope displays all the rage I feel right now.

"Don't I always?" I reply. Before he can get another word out, I turn back around and storm out the door, paying no heed to the blast of cold air that smacks my face. It's a cold day in Gotham, and I forgot my jacket at home, but a little cold air can't hurt me.

_Hell, a notorious serial killer couldn't hurt me…_

I snap out of that rogue thought quickly.

Last night has been replaying in my head since it happened. I was too busy last night going over everything I did wrong to get any sleep. I've got to put it out of my head.

For the rest of my walk home, that's exactly what I do. I think of anything and everything else.

I think of the school work I still have to finish…

I think of that cliché young adult novel I started reading yesterday morning…

I think of what I'm going to cook tonight (it's a toss-up between ramen and mac n' chees)…

I think of what I'm going to do with Lola the next time I see her…

Just random, mundane things to pass the time.

My strategy must be working, because before I know it, I'm standing outside of my shoddy apartment building…

… Along with several police cruisers and an ominous looking dark van.

I watch from afar in astonishment as several police officers march into the building with purpose behind their steps. Surprise police visits around here are not unusual in the least, but that's not what leaves me befuddled about this scene.

It's the van. I recognize it.

It's Child Protective Services.

That's certainly a strange sight around here. I haven't seen one of those come through since Gracie and Zander…

I swallow a lump forming in my throat and push that thought far away.

There aren't many kids in our apartment building. It's mostly inhabited by drug dealers, high school dropouts, and the occasional pimp that I avoid in the elevator like the plague. The only kids I know of in our apartment building belong to the family above us. I'm thankful I'm not home often, because when I am, I have to deal with the sounds of the kids scampering all around while their mother screams at them to shut up and go to bed.

That explains the CPS being here. The mother must have gotten busted for something and now the kids are being taken away from their home and put into the system.

Poor kids.

I shrug it off and walk over to the entrance to the apartment building, keeping my head down to avoid attracting attention from some of the cops surrounding the front. I've spent my entire life trying to stay under the radar of police officers, and like always, I'm able to slip by undetected. But, before I can swing through the door, a strong hand grabs my arm and pulls me back.

"I'm afraid you can't go in there, ma'am."

What is it with men and grabbing me by the arm lately?

I look up at the cop who has me in his grip, putting on my best pouty, innocent teenage girl face. I've cajoled my way into the good graces of many cops in my day. It's a skill that comes in handy when you're the daughter of a woman who is frequently in trouble with the law.

You'd be surprised how gullible cops around here can be.

"But sir, my mom is in there. I just want to make sure she's alright."

He narrows his eyes, looking me up and down. He glances over at some of his cop buddies standing by near the CPS van, then back to me.

"Is your mother Rosalinda Bartlett?" he asks, his voice as monotone as ever.

I can feel my face drain of color as a cold flash of terror runs through me. A cop talking about my mother is _never _a good sign. My first thought?

My mom is dead. She finally overdosed.

I shiver at the thought.

_Calm down, Dee. Don't assume the worst automatically._

"Yes," I reply somewhat shakily. "Why do you ask?"

I wait with baited breath for an explanation from him, some sort of reassurance that my fears are unfounded, but I get none. Instead, the doors behind us slam open and two police officers walk out.

Hauling my mother between them.

"I swear, it isn't mine!" she screams at them shrilly, her mess of black curls flying all over the place as she thrashes in the grip of the two unrelenting policemen. She's dressed in only a loose-fitting t-shirt, sweatpants, and her slippers; completely unprotected from the cold chill. I want nothing more than to run to her, hug her tightly, and protect her from the men trying to take her away from me.

But I know better than that by now.

"I had a guy over last night, the drugs are his!" she shouts, still fighting with everything she has. "I swear I didn't know he had them on him!"

I can't take it anymore; I have to look away. Though it's a familiar scene, I can never stand to see her like this. She's supposed to be my mother, my rock, the person I can go to when I'm in trouble. Seeing her so vulnerable… It just doesn't feel right. It never has, no matter how many times I've seen her like this.

"Okay, Miss, if you'll just come with me…" my designated officer orders in the same monotone voice, dragging me away from the chaotic scene. I don't fight back, just glad that I'm no longer watching my mom being manhandled.

Turning around, I watch as a man in a suit steps out of the black van –

_Oh shit._

In all the mayhem, I _completely_ forgot about that black van and the purpose it serves. It didn't even register to me.

Panic swells up in my chest as I finally come to the only logical conclusion there is:

_CPS is taking me away_.

"NO!" I shout, unable to contain myself. No, no, no, this isn't happening. I won't _let _it happen. They are out of their minds if they think I will go quietly. I spent time in a group home once when I was 10, and I promised myself the day I got out that I would _never _end up in that position again.

I fully intend to keep that promise.

"You can't do this to me!" I shout at the officer, wrenching my arm out of his grip before he can hand me over to the CPS worker like a lamb to slaughter. I can still hear Mom's shouts, the commanding voices of the officers hauling her away, the sirens blaring from the police car, all of the sounds blended together in a chaotic melody that causes my chest to constrict painfully, cutting off air from reaching my lungs…

No, I _cannot _have a panic attack! Not now!

I regain my ability to breathe when the CPS worker grabs me by both shoulders and wrenches me back into the van against my will, practically tossing me into the leather seat like a bag of flour. Pure adrenaline pumps through my veins, and I do the very first thing that pops into my head.

I punch him square in the face.

It's a mean left hook right to the nose, and if the cracking sound I heard was any indication, I hit my mark. If it were under different circumstances, I would take a moment to admire my work, but all I have right now are animalistic instincts.

I _have _to get away

His head flies back as he lets out a pained groan, blood gushing from his nose like a small river. I take it as an opportunity to try and bolt from the van. Unfortunately, this guy must have seen it all before, because he's quick to restrain me and buckle me in. Even with blood pouring down his face at an alarming rate and me thrashing around like a lunatic, he's able to secure me into the seat and slam the door shut behind me.

Damn, he's a pro.

I smack a hand against the window, watching as they're finally able to subdue my mother into the police cruiser. Briefly, she turns back to look at the van I'm trapped in and our eyes lock. As quickly as it happens, it's gone. But in that one flash, I could see it all; the terror, the confusion, the concern. All reflected in her gaze.

Tears form in the corners of my eyes, stinging like venom. I just don't understand. I've always been _so_ careful. Much too careful to let something like this happen. I never let her dealer into our apartment, I clean the house, I get rid of any evidence of her illegal activities, I take care of her, I keep a good job and put food on the table, I do good in school, I generally try to stay out of trouble and under the radar…

What did I do wrong?

I rest my head against the cool window as the CPS worker starts to drive away. Away from my mom, away from my home, away from my life. A few stray tears leak out and slide down my cheeks. I wipe them away.

All I want is my mom.

I blink the rest of the tears away and watch the scenery change as we drive slowly through the East End, on our way to God-knows-where. Everything is as it was when I walked home today, except for one thing.

A man stands on the sidewalk, his body facing towards the road. He wears a black hoodie and jeans. Totally inconspicuous, right? But something about his appearance is both alarmingly familiar and surprisingly terrifying. And though we drive by too quickly for me to be absolutely sure, I'm almost positive I can see his face slightly shadowed by the hoodie.

And he's smiling right at me.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Will Dee be reunited with her mother?**

**Will she find out who that man is?**

**Will I ever shut up and go to sleep?**

**Keep reading and you may find out the answers to these questions!**

**Except for the last question. The answer to that one is no.**


	7. Chapter 6

**A/N: For one of the first times ever, I don't have much to say for my author's note.**

**Well... enjoy.**

* * *

><p><strong>Damian's POV<strong>

"I'm not sure what's come over me," I tell Colin, taking another stab at my too-dry salad. "Every time I pick up my pencil and attempt to draw, it comes out just… wrong. I'm blocked and I don't know why."

Colin shrugs, taking a sip from his large strawberry smoothie. I wrinkle my nose in disgust, wondering how he drinks those syrup-drenched concoctions with such ease. The smoothies here are subpar at best. Hell, even the salads are dry and tasteless, no matter how much dressing they attempt to drown it in. But Colin seems to like this café's atmosphere, so I tolerate it when he asks to meet up here.

"Maybe you need to get inspired," Colin suggests. "Try something new, make some new friends, explore. Maybe you'll get some sketch ideas."

I scoff at the idea. Explore? I had already traveled to every corner of the earth by the time I was 6 years old. As Robin, I've seen things that the average mind couldn't even begin to fathom. I doubt 'exploring' or 'trying something new' will ease my artist's block.

As for making new friends, I do not feel the need. I already have Colin and Grayson. I have my animals. Todd isn't the worst company in the world, either. Even Drake and I have come to a somewhat… _understanding _of each other, though I would not consider us to be 'friends'. My point is, I have no desire to seek out extra companionship.

"It's just something I must work through," I reply dismissively. "All artists experience it at one point or another. It can't last forever, now can it?"

Once again, he shrugs in response, taking another long sip from his smoothie.

"So what else has been happening in Damian's world?" he asks, skillfully changing the subject. I shove the salad aside, finally giving up on the ranch-drenched health hazard.

"My life has been unusually boring these past few days," I answer honestly. "The only thing worth mentioning is the… case."

Cryptic, but I can't talk openly in a café surrounded by civilians.

"You mean the East End one?" he asks, glancing around briefly to see if anyone is listening in. "I thought your dad told you to stay out of it?"

"He came around," I reply with a smirk. Yes, he came around, after I hacked into any online file I could find that contained information about the case. I must have worn him down, because he eventually stopped refusing my help when I offered it to him. He's still not too entirely thrilled with the idea of me working with him on this, but he has learned to choose his battles. And this is not one he will win.

"Why would you even _want _to get involved in that?" Colin asks incredulously. "That doesn't exactly sound like a fun case."

I want to tell Colin that I'm already invested in this case. I want to tell him about the girl I keep encountering who can't seem to keep herself out of trouble, the girl who has jumpstarted my keen interest in this case. But for some reason, I know that this is something I should keep to myself.

"It's something to pass the time," I answer dismissively, taking a sip of my water. Colin seems to accept my response for once in his life, not pushing the issue any further. For that, I am thankful. I enjoy his company, I really do, but he doesn't usually know when to leave well enough alone.

A comfortable silence envelops us, only broken by the occasional sounds of Colin slurping on his smoothie and my fork weakly poking around in the pathetic excuse for a salad sitting in front of me. After a few more stabs at my so-called food, Colin gives me a strange, almost concerned look.

"If you don't like the salad, I can always order you something else," he offers. I take a look at the empty tray next to him that once held a cheeseburger and a side of fries. It took him what seemed like less than a minute to devour the entire meal whole. According to him, not all their food is complete garbage. I wouldn't know. I've only made it half-way through their meager salad menu.

"The salad is the only semblance to a healthy and well-balanced meal that they sell here. I am not going to poison my body with some fattening, artery-clogging, greasy excuse for a lunch."

Colin rolls his eyes, pulling the salad bowl to his side of the table and stabbing the fork into the soggy lettuce. This isn't the first time Colin has finished my food for me. The stomach on that boy is seemingly bottomless.

"You don't _always _have to be a stick in the mud," he fires back, his mouth half-full with lettuce.

"I'm _not _being a 'stick in the mud'," I grumble. "With the work I have, I must keep my body in perfect condition. Excuse me for not eating food that would just make me sluggish."

Colin lets out a soft chuckle. He must think I'm being dramatic, as he always says.

"Whatever you say, Damian," he dismisses, finishing off the last of my salad. I roll my eyes at him, leaning back in my chair. Another silence falls over us, just as natural as the last one. Silence has always been commonplace in our friendship. With Colin, words are optional. Just being in each other's company is enough for us.

A vibration coming from the front right pocket of my jeans tells me that I have a text. Pulling out my phone, I turn it on and see a message firmly displayed across the front of the screen.

'_Come home. Now.'_

Father certainly does not mince words.

I sigh, shoving my phone back into my pocket and standing up.

"I'm sorry to say I have to leave now," I tell Colin apologetically. "Father's orders."

Colin gives me a knowing smile, and not for the first time I'm glad I befriended someone so understanding of my situation.

"Go ahead, I'll pay for the food," he insists. I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing him. I know he has a part-time job at one of the grocery stores in town and therefore has money to pick up the tab, but I still feel guilt whenever he refuses my offer to pay for whatever bill we just racked up. After all, I'm the one with money to burn, while he's the orphan with bills to pay.

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can get a word out, Colin pulls his wallet out and slaps a $20 down onto the table, staring at me as if goading me to argue with him so he can shoot my arguments down.

Damn his pride.

"Fine," I grumble, grabbing my backpack hanging off my seat. "I'll see you back here next week. That is, if I have the time."

Colin just smirks, knowing as well as I do that I'll find time for our weekly ritual even if it means dragging myself here while I'm in the process of bleeding to death. No matter how long he's had to wait for me to finally show up, Colin knows that I always will.

He knows me too well.

* * *

><p>I park my motorcycle in the lower level garage of the Manor, tossing my helmet onto one of the few hooks available on the wall. I run a hand through my coal black hair. Helmet hair is a pain in my ass.<p>

One of the cats of the house creeps up on me during this, rubbing its tiny body against my legs and purring contently. I bend down and see that it's one of the younger cats, Snowball.

I regret giving in to Grayson's pleading and letting him give one of my animals such an idiotic name.

Straightening myself out, I amble inside, heading for the living room where I can only guess Father is waiting for me. It's always the living room.

I walk into the room with my eyes directed downwards, glued to my phone as I answer a text from Grayson. The incompetent moron can't figure out how to work his new phone.

"What is it that you needed from me, Father?" I ask, slowly raising my head up from my cell phone. "I thought I told you that I would text you when…"

My words die on my lips when I see what it is that Father called me away from my outing for.

Or should I say, _who _it is that he called me here for.

A teenaged girl stands next to Father, clutching at a worn purse like it's her lifeline, glancing around wide-eyed at the opulence of the Manor as if it's an alien planet. But it's none of these things that shocks me about her.

It's the familiarity.

_It's Dee._

I do my best to keep a straight face as to not give myself away. Robin and Dee may have met, but Damian Wayne and Dee have not. I never expected us to cross paths when I'm out of uniform. We travel in two different worlds that should not intersect, but here she is, standing in my living room.

_Why the hell is she here?_

Father seems to take my stunned silence as an invitation to explain.

"Damian, I'd like you to meet Di-,"

"Dee," she cuts him off. "My name is Dee. It's nice to meet you, Damian."

Father glances down at her, arching a brow in surprise.

He is not used to being interrupted, especially not in his own home.

"It's a pleasure," I mumble in response.

"_Dee_ will be staying with us indefinitely," Father interjects, almost as if he can sense the tension. "And while she's staying with us, I expect you to treat her with the same level of respect you would give me or Alfred. Are we clear?"

I can tell by the look on his face that this is something we will discuss later, when she is not in the room with us.

I nod quickly, risking a quick glance at Dee. To my surprise, she's looking back at me, completely unabashed. She doesn't even look away when our eyes accidentally lock. She just continues to stare at me, scrutinizing me, sizing me up. I don't know why, but it's incredibly disconcerting. When my face forms into a scowl, she finally tears her intense gaze away with cheeks tinted pink. A ripple of satisfaction runs down my spine.

I win.

"She'll be staying in the bedroom across from yours," Father reveals. "Would you care to show her where that is?"

I force a smile, beckoning Dee over to the staircase. With a worried glance cast in the direction of my father, she follows me upstairs in complete silence. Unlike with Colin, this silence is awkward. Suffocating. And though the distance between the stairs and the hallway is not far at all, it feels like it takes a lifetime to make the journey. I'm not sure why her presence here makes me so distinctly uncomfortable, but it does. I don't want her here.

"Nice house you have here," she pipes up as we walk, her voice softer than it was the last time we ran into each other. I can tell, though she's trying to maintain her outward confidence, she's overwhelmed. Maybe even a tad bit scared.

Good. That means she's smart.

"Why are you here?" I blurt out. In theory, I know why she's here. She a witness to a violent crime committed by a high-risk criminal. Father must feel she needs our protection, and what better way to protect her than to bring her to the Manor? But that doesn't explain how he got ahold of her.

Dee blinks at me, seemingly put off by my blunt attitude. Well, if she's going to live in this house, she'll just have to get used to it.

"I don't know," she admits. "Your dad sprung me from a youth facility and told me I was coming home with him. I'm under his care for the time being and I have absolutely _no _idea why. I don't know why he chose me specifically or what interest I hold for him, but I hear he has a reputation for this kind of thing…"

I snort at that, thinking of all my so called 'brothers' that he's fostered. Father is a hoarder when it comes to fostering children. If only she knew the truth about her presence here.

I stop at the door across from mine, opening it up and giving a somehow sarcastic sweeping motion to the inside of the room.

"This is where you'll be staying," I state flatly, not sure what else to say. Dee walks right past me, examining her new bedroom with a keen interest. She glances around at the bare walls, opens up the doors to the spacious walk-in closet, and finally plops down on the plush queen sized bed.

"This is nice," she decides after a few moments of silence. I raise my eyebrows at her, still standing in the doorway. Nice? Just 'nice'? For a girl who lived in the East End, I would expect this room to transcend just 'nice'.

But when it comes to her, I should learn to stop having any expectations.

"I'll leave you to unpack…" I murmur, scratching uncomfortably at the base of my neck. She takes her ratty looking purse off her shoulder and throws it down onto the bed, looking up at me to flash a small, shy smile. I look away instinctively, inexplicably uncomfortable. Mumbling a goodbye, I sweep out of the room and close the door behind me.

This new living arrangement is going to take some getting used to.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I _always _feel like a I lose momentum towards the end of the chapter! Dangit!**

**Anyways, as always, feel free to tell me what you think of this chapter. I welcome reviews, follows, and favorites.**


End file.
